Merridew's Mind
by the Cheshire Cat
Summary: So what goes on in the mind of the antagonist... would _you_ know?


In this world. There are three types of humans. The good, the bad and the plain ignorant. These three genres of the human species thereby make up the homosapien specie population of planet Earth.  
  
In the novel Lord of the Flies written by Sir William Golding, we see the three genres stuck on a desolate island in the middle of nowhere. Not to mention in the midst of a war. The second world war if I'm not mistaken.  
  
Out of the five characters who have intrigued me, four of which are the main, I have decided to write in Jack Merridew's opinion. The acclaimed villain. In my perception, I do not believe that Jack initially begun his life as a sadistic and sardonic individual; but instances in his past has led him to become as so.  
  
"Jack! Jack! Look! We can make fire!"  
  
"Jack! Over here Jack!"  
  
"Jack!"  
  
"Chief!" The flame-haired boy sighed and put down the stick he had been sharpening. Reluctantly, he got up, tucking his knife into his belt. He glanced in the direction of the voices by the shore. His hunters wandering about the sun-baked sand, playing, swimming, or merely sitting idly. He took his time, strolling in their general direction, a good twenty, thirty metres away. It was almost an oppertune moment for him to take the time to reflect on the events that had past occurred.  
  
How long had it been since the plane crashed on this desolate island? A few months? Probably even a few years. Within that space of time, he had been from Head Choir Boy with the Golden Badge, to Chief Hunter of the small surviving troupe. He had hunted, killed and savoured the fruits of his labour.  
  
He paused as he entered a spot of sunlight, boring down onto his lithe frame, making him appear as a fallen Evangelist.  
  
He wondered idly how his folks were doing back home. Whether his crude and frivolous mother was still alive and not dead from being constantly on one of her fad diets. He wondered how his father was, the only blood-related kin whom he was close too. That was... until the wicked witch had decided to kick him into boarding school.  
  
He snapped the twig in half in bitter frustration and then carelessly tossed it away.  
  
He could hear their voices, getting louder and louder. Such freedom. Children bound neither by duties nor rules. Not needing to worry about a higher authority. It dawned on him that perhaps that shrimp named Ralph was correct. That this was a good island.   
  
An island of paradise, he thought. A haven.  
  
"Jack." A rustle of leaves to his left and jack saw a familiar tanned figure emerge from the lush green foliage. Roger ran a hand through his dark disheveled hair and grinned sardonically at Jack. He grinned back.  
  
"Any news of where he's hiding?"  
  
"The twins know. Tall grass area. Quite near the mountain."  
  
"Good. We'll smoke him out tomorrow." Roger nodded his head and the pair walked in amiable silence. It was not until the reached the frige of the forest, that Jack suddenly swerved to his left. Not wanting to return to the hunters as of yet. Roger stopped short and then joined him at his side.  
  
"Something on your mind?"   
  
"Lots." Again the latter nodded his head, keeping silent. Their strides matched, for both were close to the same height and built. Only that Jack was far more bony than Roger was.  
  
"Ever though of home?" The red-head asked suddenly. Roger shrugged.  
  
"Not really."  
  
"Figures."  
  
"You too?"  
  
"Yeah. You know... I don't even think about them anymore." Jack confessed, his gaze locked on straight ahead. Okay... so maybe he had thought of home once in a while. But only where it came to the comforts of his bed at the boarding school. The warm cooked food, even though half the time it was inedible to the human digestive tract. He sometimes wondered if it wasn't for the crash, he would have been on his way home to a cold and empty house. Father was rarely home, and mother, no point in wondering. He still wondered why he was almost ecstatic when the Headmaster announced that they would be getting an advance on their Summer Break.   
  
"Heh. Same ol' attitude eh? Don't know, don't bother and don't care." Roger laughed, breaking his thoughts. His deep baritone voice ringing clearly in the air.  
  
"Want to know something? I think it's a good thing we crashed here. Like, there's no one to boss us around. No one telling us what to do. We do what we want, we beat up whoever who's in our way. We're the kings!" Jack smiled at Roger's enthusiasm, and then frowned.  
  
Somehow at the back of his mind, he recalled someone saying the same thing to him.  
  
But when was it?  
  
With Roger giving a sadistic account of how he punished the Littleuns when they made too much noise, Jack lapsed into a moment of recollections.  
  
He never had a happy childhood, or to be precise, he didn't even have one. He spent most of his time indoors, for his mother felt like retching everytime she saw him. Thus he remained hidden in his room. Contenting himself with the books his father bought him, the toys that would often be smuggled in late at night.  
  
That all ended when he turned eight, and his mother had pestered his father until he reluctantly agreed to send him to boarding school. Roswell boarding School for Young Gentlemen. The students who went there however, were quite the opposite.  
  
Jack recalled the days of being bullied by the senior boys, beaten up every day because they didn't like red heads. He was taunted everyday, being called a gay because he had joined the school choir and had an angel's soprano voice. In an effort to console himself, his conscience had told him that they were merely jealous that he could sing high C and that they couldn't. It worked to an extent. He felt slightly better than before, but it didn't stop the beatings.  
  
Then he turned twelve and was considered a senior. With being a senior... there came privileges.  
  
Jack smiled in bitter triumph and glanced at Roger, who had now moved on to rambling about hunting more pigs for the days to come. He had known Roger for most of his time while in boarding school. Coming across the latter in choir. He was awestruck by Roger's voice, though deep, it had a strange wistfulness and sadness about it. And only he knew why.  
  
"Oi Merridew! You listening to me?" Roger leapt in front of his choir member, eyes wide, his ahead cocked to one side. Jack laughed and pushed him away.  
  
"Yeah! Now get out of my way!" Roger feigned stumbling and fell onto the sandy beach, pulling Jack down with him. The pair engaged in harmless brawl which ended moments later when they suddenly froze and glared at each other. Then they laughed. With sand-covered bodies they ran back towards the group of hunters on the other end of the beach, laughing all the way.  
  
It was a lesson I learnt that you should not label a person just by the way he or she acts. Be it by acting tyrannical, sadistic or simply plain cannibalistic. For we do not know what they've been through that would have resulted in them being so.  
  
Take the case of Jack Merridew for example. A young male, who led an unhappy and almost non-existent childhood. Cast out by his own mother and thrown into a boarding school where he was neither treated better. Instead of helping the lad to foster a gentleman's character, the school had only served into making him a tyrannical and dictating figure.   
  
But it is only on the island that we find out his true character. Yet even so, it had long been marred by influence within civilisation which reflects back onto the situation on the island. Only this time causing the reverse - where civilisation breaks down. 


End file.
